Rewinder

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The next morning, Iffy takes me to an amusement park called Disneyland.

I can say without hesitation it’s the most fun I’ve had on any single day of my life.

All I know are Iffy’s laughter and smile. All I feel are her hand in mine and her lips on my lips. All I want is to be a part of…

…her life.

That thought again, sneaking out of its box. I’m in no mood to shove it back, and instead let it run wild while we race down mountains and splash down waterfalls.

WE SPEND THE night in the same Motel 6, falling asleep beside each other, still beaming from the day.

When we wake, only about twenty-four hours are left until Lidia’s deadline, and the euphoria of the day before has been replaced by tension.

“You don’t have to come with me any longer,” Iffy says as we head to the car.

“I thought you want to show me things.”

“I have shown you things.”

“Where are you going?”

“Home,” she says. “San Diego. I…want to see my family.”

I slip my hand into hers and squeeze. “Take me with you.”

On the drive down the coast, I ask her about her family. She tells me her father left when she was young and her mother remarried a few years later.

“It worked out all right,” she says. “My stepfather’s not a bad guy.” She thinks a moment. “Actually, he’s a good guy. I’m lucky I had him.

“And your mom?”

“Mom is Mom. A little clueless, but harmless. I could’ve been better to her. You know, moms and daughters, constantly fighting with each other. I guess it’s not always true, but it was in our case.”

“Any reason why?”

She shakes her head. “It’s just what we always did.”

The closer to San Diego we get, the less she says, and when we pass the city-limits sign, her lips seal tight.

After she exits the freeway and turns down a couple of streets, I begin to recognize the area from my trip into her past. When she turns onto her street, I notice that the knuckles on her hands have turned white from gripping the wheel too hard. I touch her shoulder, hoping to relax her, but she jerks away.

From the sideways glance she gives me, I can see she didn’t mean to do it but couldn’t help herself. I know what’s going on. Her fate is becoming real for her and she’s trying to break away from me, trying to sever a bond already too thick to cut.

She parks near the spot where I saw her tear Ryan Smith’s heart in two. After turning off the ignition, she stares out the front window before finally looking at me.

“I don’t want you coming inside.” Her eyes are watery and her lip trembles slightly.

“If that’s what you’d prefer.”

“It is.” She pauses. “You’re sure? Tomorrow it all goes away?”

“That’s their plan.”

“And they can really do it?”

“Yes.”

I sense there’s another question she wants to ask, but the moment passes and all she says is, “Remember.”

With a quick pull of the handle, she jumps out of the car and runs to the house.

Where do I go? I don’t know. I just walk.

Homes. Busy streets. An ocean breeze. Loud music drifting out the door of a bar. A couple pressed into a corner, kissing long and deep.

As much as I want to push everything away, I hear and see it all, my conscience not letting me ignore any of it. After all, this is the world that soon will never have been, many of its people the pending victims of my second genocide.

I walk from when the sun has yet to reach mid-sky to when it disappears behind the buildings to the west.

As the evening grows darker and I hear the distant sound of waves crashing on a beach, I begin to play the game. At least I tell myself that’s what it is — a child’s game of What If?

What if I get to choose which world should stay, based not on my personal history but my observations of both?

First, I would admit that my knowledge of the world I’m currently in is woefully lacking. A week in a library and a few days wandering are hardly long enough to judge a whole civilization.

And yet, what if that’s what I have to do?

Lists of pros and cons for each world begin writing themselves in my mind, and I compare and contrast. But all this does is confuse me.

Several times I have to remind myself this is just a game, that changing things back is a forgone conclusion.

A bell rings above the door of a tiny food store nearby as a mother and son exit. Heading toward me, the boy, no more than ten years old, opens the small package he’s carrying, revealing a dark brown object. He takes a bite and I see it’s ice cream.

“How is it?” the woman asks.

“Great,” the boy says. “Thanks, Mom.”

My pace falters as a memory of my own mother hits me. My sister and I are in the kitchen, watching our mother make sugar bread. It must be near Christmas, because that’s the only time we would have it. I’m seven, I think, and begging her for a taste of the dough.

It’s a dance we do every year. She tells me no, that it’s better when it’s cooked, and I, unrelentingly, argue that the raw dough is better. Ellie eventually gets into the act, siding sometimes with me and other times with Mom. But like always, as my mother forms the loaves, she pinches off a couple small balls and hands one to each of us.

“Shh,” she says. “Don’t tell anyone.”

I reach the beach as the city behind me is falling asleep. I drop to my knees in the sand. My game of What If is over, and I need to either accept what’s coming or…

I hear the echo of Marie’s voice. “If you’re not true to yourself, this will kill you.”

Moving down to the water to where the sand is firmer, I walk parallel to the sea.

“Do what you think is right.” Marie’s words again, only this time it’s my mother’s voice.

What does she mean? Put things back the way they were?

“Do what you think is right,” Ellie whispers.

“Fix it?” I say out loud. “I should fix it — is that what you mean?”

“What you think is right.” My mother again.

I’m running now, hard and fast, my satchel slapping against my back. But I can’t outrun the voices.

“What do you think is right?”

I stumble to a stop and rest my hands on my knees as I suck in air. I know the voices aren’t Marie’s or my mother’s or my sister’s.

They’re all only one voice.

Mine.

And there’s only one reason they haven’t stopped.

As my breath begins to even out, I know what to do. The only question is—

How?